Newsflash: MY KIDS DRINK SPINACH.

We are now, officially, “That Weird Family.” And I’m perfectly fine with it. Absolutely, completely, and perfectly fine.

I didn’t know they could or would do this until Thursday noon when I fixed them some spinach smoothies, a.k.a. green smoothies.

I had heard of green smoothies but I thought they had something to do with green tea. Earlier this week I suddenly got curious, did some digging, and learned that, lo and behold, green smoothies get their name and color from greens like spinach and kale. Fifty percent fruit and fifty percent vegetables is what one site said.

No freakin’ way, I thought. Then I recalled that I had two nanners in the freezer and thought, Well, why not? It was ten minutes till twelve and the kids were playing outside. They wouldn’t be around to witness what weird stuff went in my blender.

So I put half a bag of frozen spinach into the blender, added the bananas, and then doused the contents with some of my home-canned apple juice. Flipping the blender on and watching the contents turn bright green, I started feeling a little odd, like I was suddenly a tree-loving, tie-dye wearing, dreadlock-sporting, granola-munching, weed-smoking hippie. I was gettin’ some pretty funky vibes, there was no doubt about it.

I whirled the contents till there wasn’t one tell-tale sign of leafy-ness—the mixture was smooth, creamy, and very, very green. I poured the contents into glasses and summoned the children. They came running, but once inside they slowed down considerably, circling the table, suspiciously eyeing their glasses of green.

“Have I got a treat for you!” I crowed. “Go wash your hands and sit up. Hurry, hurry! I can’t wait for you to taste it!” They hustled, sat, and slurped, and the feedback was immediate: Yum! WOW. This is delicious! Oh boy, this is good! What is it?

“I’m not telling till you’re all done,” I said, grinning mysteriously. “Now, who wants toasted shredded wheat bread with peanut butter and honey?”

They drained their glasses in no time flat. “It’s spinach,” I said.

They froze. Horror and disbelief flashed across their trusting faces. I talked fast, happily, excitedly.

“And there’s bananas and apple juice, too. It’s sweet, isn’t it? It’s so good for you and it’s delicious! You can’t even taste the spinach, and it turns it the prettiest green. Isn’t that amazing?”

They relaxed, sucked up the last few drops, and asked for more. Score!

I made a smoothie for Mr. Handsome that evening (after a trip to town where I bought more bananas). The kids fought over the bit that remained in the blender. Miss Beccaboo, who wasn’t around when I doled it out, was severely disappointed, so I promised her another one for the next day’s lunch, this time with pineapple, banana, and strawberries, and lots of yummy spinach, too.

I didn’t get around to following up on my word (life threw me a humdinger of a curve ball—more on that later), but that evening for dessert (!!!!!), I whipped up another smoothie, this time with extra spinach, bananas, apple juice, and canned pears.

I’m shocked. I’m tickled. I’m thrilled. Mr. Handsome loves them. There is no dairy to bloat him, he of the lactose-intolerant. I love them; they make me feel light and airy and energetic. The kids love, love, love them. Need I say more?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go plant five more packets of spinach.

Green Smoothie
The formula is pretty simple: fifty percent vegetable, fifty percent fruit, and water (or fruit juice) to cover. However, at this point I’m using more fruit then vegetable. (I halfway weighed last night’s portions: 4 ounces frozen spinach, 2 bananas [about six ounces], two or three canned pears plus some juice, and about one cup of home-canned apple juice.)

I’ve read that you can increase the veggies to sixty percent, and the variations are wide-ranging and never-ending. For example, in place of spinach try dandelion greens, purslane, nettle leaves, arugula, parsley, and basil. And other suggested fruits (though a banana or avocado helps to emulsify, or make creamy, the smoothie) include apples, lemons or limes (rind removed), strawberries, pears, peaches, raspberries, and blueberries. The experts also suggest including a teaspoon of super food, such as bee pollen, hemp seeds, goji berries, pure chocolate, and wheatgrass juice, of which I have none. For now, the fact that my kids are drinking spinach is more than enough.

Basic Green Smoothie Formula
4 ounces spinach (one whole bag), fresh or frozen (don’t bother to drain)
2 bananas, fresh or frozen
1-2 cups apple juice
ice, if desired

Blend thoroughly and serve.

I will update this post as I try new variations. If you’re already a green smoothie afficionado, please share your secrets. I’m on a roll!

Updated on May 3, 2010: Strawberries and spinach make a puke-y brown smoothie. Still delicious though, if you can get past the sludge-ish-ness.

About one year ago: Strawberry Cheesecake Ice Cream.

Something unusual happened on Sunday evening. As is my custom at the start of the week, I moseyed over to the large calendar that’s posted on the side of the fridge to find out what was going to be happening the following week. And then I gasped. Because there was nothing on the calendar. Nothing. As in, not a thing.

Five blank days. Totally blank. Not a church meeting, not a doctor’s appointment, not a book due, not a baby to be sat.

This never happens to me. I’m a homebody for sure, but usually there is something on the calendar, if only a note to place a grocery order for the co-op or reminding me that my period is due.

Granted, a blank calendar doesn’t mean nothing will happen. Life is full with kids and cooking and cleaning and impromptu trips to town and walks and writing and gardening and phone calls and bills to be paid and laundry and rest time, and, and, and….

But still, nothing scheduled.

This freak phenomenon might make some people panic and for others it’s completely incomprehensible. But for me it’s like a breath of fresh air. Open space and freedom. I love it.

So I called up my friend to see if she needed me to watch her kids this week.

Maybe blank days do sort of make me nervous after all?

Anyway, it’s a good thing that I have had a free schedule this week. My head has been screwed on backwards lately and I’ve been trying to twist it back around to the way it should go. Last week I flopped two cakes. I undercooked a batch of bread (and refrained from jumping on it). Then I made it again, but without the salt. Darn.

This week, I’ve been working to straighten all that out. I took the time to set up my online filing system (thanks, Simplebites dearies!) (I have high hopes for this system—it will clear out my head so I can bake straight … or else), and then I made the bread for the third time. And I got it right! (All of the mistake loaves got eaten, even the unsalted ones—either the bread is very forgiving or else we were starving.)

This bread is old-fashioned. The recipe comes from Mr. Handsome’s grandfather and grandmother. Grandpa Papp used to make it all the time. He was very particular about his bread. He had a marble slab for kneading the dough. I doubt he ever forgot the salt. If you have a marble slab then you are a serious baker, incapable of commiting brainless errors.

Mr. Handsome and I (and Mr. Handsome’s sister Sarah and her boyfriend) visited Grandpa Papp when we were dating. On evening Grandpa Papp loaded us up in his enormous Cadillac and drove us to a fancy restaurant where there were roses on the table and we could order anything we wanted. Sarah’s was having trouble with her ears not popping, so she entertained us for the whole meal by opening and closing her mouth like a guppy. She tried to be discreet, but you can’t really imitate a fish and be discreet.

Grandpa Papp didn’t serve us any of this bread (that I remember) on that visit, but he did sing to us and tell us stories. He was a character, that’s for sure.

Anyway, this bread is his (or his wife’s, but since I never met her, I think of it as all his). It’s unbelievably soft and tender; Sweetsie calls it donut bread. It reminds me of good-quality store-bought whole wheat bread, in a respectable way.

Shredded Wheat Bread
From Grandpa Papp

I’ve added some whole wheat, but other than that, this recipe is true to the original.

Make sure you bake it long enough. And don’t forget the salt!

2 shredded wheat biscuits
3 tablespoons butter
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup molasses
1 tablespoon salt
2 cups boiling water
1 tablespoon yeast dissolved in ½ cup lukewarm water
2 cups whole wheat flour
5-6 cups bread flour

Put the shredded wheat, butter, sugar, molasses, and salt into a large mixing bowl. Add the boiling water. Once the butter has melted and the water has cooled, add the whole wheat flour and the dissolved yeast and stir to combine. Add the remaining flour. Turn the dough out onto the counter and knead till it is elastic and smooth. It’s a soft dough, so just add enough flour to keep it from sticking to your fingers, but not too much so that it gets tough.

Return the dough to the bowl (lightly flour it first), cover it with a cloth, and allow it to rise till double.

Cut the dough into two pieces and shape into loaves. Tuck the loaves into loaf pans, cover with the cloth again, and let rise till nearly double.

Bake the loaves at 350 degrees for 35-40 minutes. The bread darkens quickly, but don’t be alarmed—it’s not burning (most likely).

Turn the loaves out onto a cooling rack. Bag and freeze any leftovers.

(I’m submitting this recipe to yeastspottings.)

P.S. How we eat shredded wheat:

Spread it with peanut butter.

Drizzle it with honey.

Pour milk over all and eat. The kids go nutso-happy over this breakfast.

About one year ago: Rhubarb Jam

Meet the gang.

The pack, the crew, the mob … my kids. I birthed those people, you know.

They’re together all the time, sharing the same table, bedrooms, yard, sofas, bathtub. They have good moments, like today when The Baby Nickel had a splinter in his hand and entrusted Yo-Yo with both his hand and the tweezers, then crouched down on the floor, averted his face, and whimpered while Yo-Yo carefully extricated the bit of wood and then fixed him up with a band-aid.

They have their bad moments, too, like today when Yo-Yo threw rocks at Miss Beccaboo (and vice versa) and when Miss Beccaboo poked Sweetsie in the back and when Sweetsie called everybody in the whole wide world bad names and when The Baby Nickel whacked Miss Beccaboo in the head with the vacuum nozzle (I think it was by accident, but one can never be certain). Some (most?) days it feels like the antagonizing and bickering outweigh the cooperation and teamwork.

But then there are moments like this where they gel. They relax, bond, discuss, and ponder. No fists fly, no bad names (that I can hear), no crying.

This particular good-will moment took place after two of the kids returned from visiting my parents for several days. I don’t remember which configuration it was—the girls, the boys, the bigs, the littles—but they were clearly pleased to be together again.

And they were clearly pleased to have their wheels. They love riding bike. They beg to be allowed to ride on the road (where cars go 45-55 mph), and after a high-speed car chase by our house last weekend (a drunk old man was out joyriding on his motorcycle, state troopers in hot pursuit—they went by our house twice), it was easier to explain to them why it is not safe to play on the road. But still, they beg.

(Maybe you can help me here. We allow Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo to ride the half mile to my brother’s, but so far that’s about it. They want to be allowed to take their bikes out for a spin, to go for longer distances. Any advice? At what age is it appropriate for kids to go on bike rides without an adult? I know there’s no magic answer but that doesn’t stop me from wishing there was. This whole growing up and independence thing is a little unclear at times.)

Of course the kids aren’t content to simply pedal around the property. They have to ham things up a bit. I’ve always been a little jealous of other mothers whose kids play with toys the way they are intended, put puzzles together, stack blocks, swing on the swings, etc. My kids are incapable.

Yo-Yo put the baby seat on the back of Mr. Handsome’s bike and took The Baby Nickel for a ride.

Yo-Yo took all the other kids, plus a teddy bear, on rides. Then he decided that he needed to practice carrying heavy weights so he could get stronger, so he strapped Mr. Handsome’s jacks onto the back of the bike. Like Miss Beccaboo wasn’t heavy enough (she almost broke the seat). I didn’t get pictures of any of that. But it still happened.

And there goes Miss Beccaboo in her bonnet. Fashion sense isn’t all that important out here in the country where there is only grass to ride on. Shorts, cowboy boots, dirty t-shirts, and calico bonnets—they were meant to go together, right?

Wheeeee! Look at her go!

About one year ago: Thinking thoughts.